One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,7

ducks into a bar. I roll my eyes—seriously? Not that I'm what you'd call qualified to be the alcohol police or anything, but how cliché can you get? He's got a whole town to wander—not much of one, granted—but instead he's going to head to the nearest bar and get wasted just like every other college dumbass I've ever known. His phone call must have gone even worse than I thought.

I collapse on the curb and kick my shoes off, rubbing my feet. At least this gives me a chance to rest. I check my phone. Two frantic texts from Julia saying that my father called looking for me. And an irate message from my father demanding to know why Thom Derrek had been left alone in our house, and where the hell was I? I guess they've noticed I'm gone.

I consider texting Julia telling her where I am and that I'm okay, but I decide against it. If my dad tries to get it out of her—and he will—she'll fold like a…thing that folds really easily. A fan? A T-shirt?

I rub my eyes. I must be really tired. My brain is speaking nonsense, and my decision-making skills are, shall we say, questionable. I'm also starving. I ran out of the house before we'd started dinner, and it's getting pretty late now. I dig through my bag looking for a snack, but all I come up with is some gum. And it's sugar-free, of course.

I chew it anyway—maybe I can trick my brain into thinking I'm getting some food—and haul my ass up off the curb. I reluctantly put my shoes back on, and peek cautiously in the window of the bar. Yep, there's the Geek, knocking back shots like they're going to run out, and showing no sign of stopping anytime soon. Way to go, dude. I make a note not to sit anywhere near him on the bus in case he pukes.

In the meantime, though, what the hell am I going to do? My un-fooled stomach rumbles agonizingly, but I can't exactly go running off in search of something to eat—Goth Geek could head out at any moment, and I'd have no idea. I look up and down the street desperately, but there's nothing. There's a Motel 6, a seedy-looking dentist's office, and a car repair shop. Not even a magazine stand or a fruit cart. How can that be? How did I end up on the one street in Santa Barbara that isn't selling overpriced food?

There's nothing for it. My stomach will just have to wait. I glare at the Geek through the concrete wall of the bar and try to make myself as comfortable as is possible in a stiff cashmere top, jeans that look good but are just a tiny bit tight when I'm sitting down, and shoes that seem intent on exacting revenge for being walked on.

I stand and wait outside what must be the reekingest bar in Santa Barbara for a full fifteen minutes before the idiocy of my situation really sinks in. Even if by some miracle the Geek emerges in a state fit to get himself back to the station, I could certainly have waited in that line and figured it out for my damn self by then.

I push myself off the wall and march back to the bus station, shaking my head and muttering at my stupidity, the Geek's stupidity, and the stupidity of the population of Santa Barbara, just on principle. When I get back, it seems like the line has somehow grown longer, if such a thing were possible. I shift back and forth on my heels, and try to imagine myself someplace else. Like a massage table.

When I finally get up to the teller and ask her if she could please tell me what bus I take to get to whatever train it is I take to get to Chicago to get to New York, she looks at me with disbelief.

“Do you see that there are fifty people behind you?” she asks. “Tell me what ticket you want and I'll sell it to you.”

“I don't need a ticket,” I explain. “I already have a rail pass, I'm just not quite sure how to use it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do I look like a route planner to you, ma'am? There are maps over there at the kiosk. Next!”

Ma'am? “The maps are all gone. Could you please just tell me how to get to New York? I'm sure it